Intersection
by yadon
Summary: After a year of struggling through each day, Jake Marshall ends up working crossing guard detail at the local Sci-Fi Convention, and his path crosses - quite literally and abruptly - with the one other person on God's green earth who might have a whit of understanding about what he's been tusslin' with. [Written for obiwanlivesforever, featuring her OC Denise Swallow.]


It's a chance for fresh air, a little extra pay, not to mention take a gander at the pretty young things runnin' rampant 'round the grounds of Ivy University.

Not somethin' he should be prayin' to _just end_ already.

If Ms. Angel knew he was grousin' this much about it, even internally, she'd shoot him one-a those mean glares that could practically skin a man alive. He'd told her last night when they was out 'bout his plans for this, and she said she'd "give her left tit" to be workin' the lot and crosswalks for FanCon 2016, if it meant havin' her badge again.

He told her, oh Lordy, give up _any_ other part but that! -or the right one, for that matter.

His shin still rightly smarts where her pointy-toe shoe struck it.

But Jake didn't reckon it'd be so _difficult_ a task. Routine and mindless, sure, but a _different_ mindless routine than the God-fucking-awful one he drags himself to everyday, so he took it without any consideration that this is a job for a _cop_ , and not a man who only dressed, spoke, and acted like one anymore.

It's for someone who _gives a damn_ about what their badge represents. Like Angel, or the feller who's been partnered up with Jake today: Dustin Prince.

Jake is pretty good at sniffin' out reasons to dislike just about anything nowadays, but there ain't a damn thing to dislike about Prince.

Look up "upstanding" in the dictionary, and you'd find Dustin Prince as he is today. Jake can remember helpin' the kid break in, that he was one a the few in training who never hadda be told to giddy-up. Always found the spark for bein' a cop without anyone needin' to spur him on.

Prince loved – still loves – his job in this real neon-bright kinda way, an' all his nods and hellos to the parade of convention-goers, how he's grinnin' like a hanger's been stuck in his mouth, proves it ain't a lie, and Jake would know, havin' grown _real_ familiar with lies and falsities.

There's a dull throbbing in the back of Jake's skull courtesy of partaking in one (or three) too many pints last night, and seein', hearin' Prince so _on fire_ makes that hurting sneak down around his heart.

Last Jake saw someone burnin' so fierce for their line of work was Neil. Or maybe it weren't, not _really_ , but that's who he thinks of. 'Course. 'Cause don't _everything_ these days make Neil the first and last thing his memory ropes around?

Jake shows _his_ fervor for his job by keepin' his words at a bare minimum, ushering the goers towards the university's huge all-purpose stadium without makin' eye contact with any of 'em directly. Stop. Wait. Get along.

Any who got questions 'bout – well, he don't let 'em get far enough to find out _what_ their questions are about. He jus' cuts 'em off, "Hey, Prince over there can help you out," whether Prince really can or not.

Only one he has any real interaction with is some kinda teenaged costumed nitwit who's showin' off for his posse by swingin' around his light-up sword, goin' on 'bout an empire that needsa be taken down.

In all his antics, he stumbles into Jake and the sword wings out, knocks off his hat, which gets trodden on by another pedestrian 'fore Jake manages to snatch it back off the pavement.

Jake punches out the dent in his hat, talks over the profusely apologizing space-man tellin' him to take his fucking space-sword back to Planet Shitforbrains 'less he feels up to having said sword stuffed down his throat.

Space-man asks for his name and badge number, says he'll write a scathing complaint to the LAPD to make sure Jake's superior knows all about it.

With a short callous laugh and a dangerous smile daring Space-man to say one more word, Jake shoos them all away. "Move along now."

And they do, Space-man sheathing his sword at his belt, head bowed and none too hero-ish as he was moments ago.

Seems this evil empire ain't got nothin' to worry about, if they can't even match up 'gainst an already-defeated cowpoke like him.

* * *

Soon, the sun's almost at its peak in the sky, meanin' it'll be break time. This assignment's a split-shift, four hours after sunrise, as the convention goers enter, and four hours 'round sunset when they mosey on out. Crowd's tapered off a fair amount, most everyone who's goin' already there, and Jake uses the final minutes tickin' away to gain a little more info from Prince 'bout just why there's so much hubbub in the air.

"So who's all at this shindig that everyone's bangin' the doors down to see?"

Prince smiles dutifully. "Well, lots of actors. A couple British ones. I don't really know British shows, though. And some from that kids show, _Super Shifting Space Cadets_... you know?"

Jake doesn't. "Nope."

"Oh."

The hell are the youth of this nation being subjected to these days? Couldn't they make decent programming like _Parker, Texas Ranger_ , with that Chet Morris fella, what Jake used to watch reruns of with Neil when they was growin' up? Now they got all these danged astro-men and superheroes, gettin' sillier and sillier by the day. It's just a goddamn shame.

Prince looks eager to continue, so Jake takes the bait. "Who else? Someone you're itchin' to see?" Part of their payment for this gig is free passes for FanCon, good for either today or tomorrow. Jake would rather spend the day countin' the number of needles on Billy than go to this goofy thing.

"Sort of, yeah. You know who the Steel Samurai is, right? C'mon, even _you've_ got to have heard of him."

Jake ignores the slight. "Samurai's that metallicky sword-fightin' hombre, right?" He can remember Little Ema gettin' all pepped up over these shows, babbling on about the newest episodes. Wonders if she'll be here today, if she even still gives a hoot about it. It's been less than a year since he's seen her last, but people can change a lot in that amount of time – Jake once changed overnight, after all.

"Yeah." Dustin licks at his lips, keepin' his voice careful as he tries to steer through the conversation despite an evident uneasiness. "Yeah. I heard some guys saying no one knows what the actor who plays him looks like – that he always dresses in character, even for big conventions like this. Anyway, he's gonna be there with who I really wanna see: the Evil Magistrate – the Steel Samurai's sworn enemy."

"Yep, kinda got that. 'Evil', an' all."

"Er...yeah, but the actor who plays him, Jack Hammer...you know, a few years ago he signed on to make a basketball-themed _Samurai_ movie – they even had a working title for it: _Space Jamurai_ , but then it got scrapped 'cause Hammer quit taking lead roles all of a sudden." Dustin shrugs, his smile turning wistful. "That would've been cool, and I want to tell him face-to-face that I hope he decides to make it one day."

Again with space. And the goddamn samurais.

"Well, Dustin, sounds like alls I'm doin' is keepin' you from your hopes and dreams. Why don't you get on? Hafta let me know how it goes, though."

"You sure you don't want to come along? I heard some people buzzing that Cliff Westwick is supposed to make a surprise appearance, don't tell me you don't think it'd be neat to see him."

Yep, sure would be somethin' neat to catch sight of the star of one of Jake's all-time favorite movies, _Dirty Barry_ , a quintessential action flick. Woulda been, at one time, anyway. Ain't nothin' "neat" – ain't nothin' much of anything anymore, 'cept another hour, another minute gone by he has that Neil don't.

"Nah. Think I'll wander 'round, find a waterin' hole or some-such."

Prince frowns, the first time today Jake's seen. "I'm pretty sure we're not allowed to drink while on the job, Jake." His tone indicates he's more than pretty sure, and knows Jake is too.

"That's what they tell me." He touches the brim of his trusty hat, the same one he was once advised was against dress code.

Same one he wears every day, anyhow, 'cause he proved himself worthy of bendin' said trivial rules to his liking.

"Yeah...so, I don't want you to get into trouble..." Prince straightens his own peaked cap, glancing away from Jake and sighing softly to punctuate his sentence.

"An' I don't want you gettin' in any _trouble_ neither." Jake directs a blade-sharp grin at Dustin previewing where this trouble he'd face would be comin' from. He hates this job, but he _needs_ it; _Neil_ needs him to have it. He don't get noticed one way or the other 'nuff to get neither praised nor scolded, which is just how he prefers it. And no one, 'specially not Dustin Prince, is fit to see otherwise. "So glad we could agree that you ain't gonna tattletale on me."

There's a thick, uncomfortable pause, a stillness between the two of them save for Prince inching backwards. He's ready to not just _walk_ , but _run_ the hell away. Like everyone has from Jake.

So he's learned to chase 'em off first - don't need disappointment grinding into him anymore than it already has.

Jake waves his hand in the direction of the stadium, like Dustin is just as meaningless, pointless as one of those convention-goers.

"Get a leg on, _Príncipe._ Magistrate's a-waitin' for you."

* * *

Though his destination is the nearest saloon, he don't know exactly where that is. So he allows his boots to take him where they will, walking aimless as a tumbleweed down, over, the narrow streets lined with fraternities and residence halls, laboratories and libraries.

'Bout eight or so blocks away he finds what's gotta be the main thoroughfare for _a good time_ , near every other establishment some coffee shop or diner, scrungey little bars with college emblems and signs for happy hour specials sittin' a-tween 'em.

And as expected, one peek through their decal-covered windows shows 'em full to the brim with college students of every walk of life. How's he gonna choose whether to plunk down in a thick of geeky convention-ites, too-hip skinny-pantsed know-it-alls, or rowdy chuckleheads?

Turns out his decision gets made not 'cause of _who's_ in the bar, but what's airing on one-a their TVs.

When passin' a bar called Stubby's, he catches the distinct blue of the Los Angeles Dodgers on one of the big screens – 'pparently, it's even _called_ Dodger Blue, that's what Neil told him. He's got three-ish hours to pass, and it could be a mite easier if he spends it drinkin' and watchin' the local boys, not givin' a shit about them, instead of drinkin' and not givin' a shit about _everything_.

Stubby's is decorated pretty spare, right down to any patrons. Mostly it's jus' athletic schedules and generic ads for beer. Reminds him of where him and Angel go every week – or, _had_ been going, 'til he called it off indefinitely just 'cause he couldn't stand the state he was in, much less havin' someone like Angel seein' him in such a way. Last night was the first time he'd gone to Jack's in more'n two months, and who did he happen to run into but the Cough-Up Queen herself.

The way she just slid so smooth back into their easy rapport, how she didn't harp on him for a single second for cooping himself up for so long...Ms. Angel was a great many things, but forgiving wasn't one of them. With him though, she had been, and it was almost as if she'd gone there that night _hoping_ to see Jake again.

Weren't like he minded it none havin' her around, but Jake can't rightly say one way or another if he'd been hopin' to see her, mostly because he don't know anymore what hope feels like.

Speakin' of hopeless, that's what the Dodgers are, judging by the score. Down by five runs in only the fourth inning, and good thing this is one-a those preseasoned games, and not one that counts.

Only reason he knows this ain't a real game is 'cause he got tickets for Monday, the first real one of the year.

Truth is, he don't even like the Dodgers. Or baseball, really. Just knows 'bout it from Dad and Neil. Was a thinking man's game, s'what he'd always heard. So, not quite the right fit for him, but goin' to Opening Day, and a few others through-out the year was just somethin' the three of 'em did.

But now Dad's livin' out in the suburbs, don't see the practicality in drivin' all the way in to L.A. just for a lousy game, and Neil...

Jake finishes off his beer, the _clink_ when he sets the empty bottle down like a bell jinglin' to the barkeep.

The bartender nods at the screen above him as pries the cap off a fresh pale ale. "You think the Bums got any shot this year?"

Bums? Wait, that's their nickname, huh? Here he thought "goddamn Bums!" was just Neil blowin' his lid when they snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

Christ, he can't name a single player on the current team, only knows of that Vuvuzela or whatever his name was, that Neil had a jersey of. He sticks with vagueries, shit Dad and Neil always used to say 'bout em. "Guess they got a chance if they stay healthy, but their bullpen's a buncha clowns."

The barkeep gives a barking laugh. "You said it, man. I can't believe anyone would pay money to go watch this piece-of-crap team." He shakes his head, ambles over to a group of new patrons.

Well, dangit-all, Jake spent the money – money he didn't really have. Months ago, even, with the notion he'd take Angel along. Everything's so upside-down and ass-backwards, that if he can have _somethin'_ staying the same, even if it's as much of a snooze as a Dodgers game, he'll have it and like it, even if he really don't.

See, but the confuddling part – the puzzle within a puzzle – is now he don't wanna go, because Neil ain't with him, and then he don't _not_ wanna go, _just because_ Neil ain't with him.

Kind of like how life's been. Don't wanna keep doin' it, 'cause Neil ain't around, but don't wanna _not_ keep on with it, 'cause Neil _ain't around_ and Jake needs to know _why_ .

For near two more hours, Jake follows close enough to ascertain his prediction – 'bout their bullpen bein' as sturdy as a house of cards amidst a _derecho –_ and polishes off his third beer before payin' his tab and slipping on out as the game goes final, and the Dodgers lose by a margin of 9 to 2.

He swore he'd stick to two drinks, but it was weak and watery – he don't feel nothin' more than a fuzziness on the very corners of his thoughts - and 'sides, the extra one's for Neil. If this'd been a real game, his brother'd be drownin' his woes in a pint himself, and vowin' that the Dodgers weren't no better than a golddiggin' woman – all that time and money and they just hoodwink him, and _never again!_ is he gonna get his hopes up that this year is gonna be the year!

And Jake'd be tellin' him to _good Lord_ , cool your hide; it's _one game_. One game – one day - don't mean the end of the season. There's always tomorrow.

Neil wouldn't wanna hear that, too heated to hear anythin' from anyone, and would just growl at Jake that he don't know what he's talkin' about.

And he'd be right. Tomorrow don't always come.

* * *

Jake's four blocks from the stadium lot when his path converges at the sidewalk corner with a flock of sweetcheeked co-eds, pretty enough to ride off to battle for. If Angel knew what was flittin' through his head right now, she'd wallop him upside the head with her lunchbasket and give him an earful. Probably kick his other shin too, for good measure, for what he's thinkin' _specifically_ 'bout that rosebud-lipped blonde one.

And, course, they just miss the green light, and the traffic's steady 'nuff they can't just keep walkin', so Jake's stuck with 'em and's gotta do his best to pretend he's not hearin' what they're tittering on about: all the fun they had at Spring Break couple weeks ago.

He chances a peek at them, but they're ignorin' him – 'course, since he ain't nothin' but a mangy old vulture here 'mongst the sparrows – and one of 'em whips out her fancy phone. They all start gigglin' even louder as they go through pictures. From the words he catches, sounds like these pictures feature 'em wearin' nary more than a few thin strings and fabric patches here-an'-there, and Jake _forces_ himself to stare straight ahead.

It ain't right some flashy lil' fistful of techno-bits has seen more of the female form over the course of a week than he has in...too damn long.

Even all their talk 'bout barin' near all can't distract him from what happens next.

Another girl steps between him and the birdies, and keeps right on walkin'. She ain't hard to miss, bright red-white-and-blue criss-crossy pattern emblazoned on the back of her black shirt – the flag of Britain, even he knows that.

Her chestnut-haired head's down, and there's a thin wire snaking up to her ears. Headphones. One of her hand's gotta coffee cup in it, and the other's got -

a cutesy wallet that falls to the pavement, right smack in the middle of the crosswalk.

'Cept it don't really _fall_ so much as she kinda... _drops_ it. Purposeful-like. 'Least, that's what Jake sees. Been some time since he's paid close attention to...anything, but not so long that his own eyes that've seen so much would be flimflamming him.

And when she stops dead, crouching down and reaching for her wallet while the car's still barrellin' towards her, Jake don't needa see any more.

Just like he's been jabbed with a red-hot poker, thoughtless for anythin' but the intended, _needed_ result, Jake goes full-pelt not for the girl, but for the other side of the street, meanin' to take her right along with.

His arms find her somewheres around her top half, and in his fevered mind he _knows_ he should try an' circle that he's most in front of her, but time don't allow for him to spend it _knowin'_ , so the best he can actually _do_ is get her halfways under him as the monstrous hum-vee guns past, close enough the speed-by breeze ferociously flings Jake's hat off.

A blaring horn cuts through the shrieks from every girl 'round 'cept the one he's got in his arms. A hard _whump_ of both their bodies slamming to the macadam crosses up with the crunching and snapping from who-knows-what, but distinctively _not_ bones, and the raised curb of the sidewalk gives Jake's shoulder a brutal greeting...but he'll take a nasty, lingering hello 'posed to the quick goodbye the girl was facin'.

One of the frat punks hangin' out the behemoth truck hollers back towards them – the girl, 'specially. "Watch out you dumb -!" followed by a word Jake swears he'll knock out of the jackass's vocabulary with his fist if they ever meet up.

Jake rises to a kneeling position. His hands somehow left hold of the girl during the spill, and they automatically check to ensure his holster and own wallet (and badge) didn't go the way of his hat.

His _eyes_ , though, immediately lock on the girl who's half-crumpled jus' a couple feet nearby. " _Jesus_ ," he gasps out to no one in particular when he gets a load of what's lookin' back at him.

She's half-sittin', half-reclinin' back on her elbows, and the only thing he's ever known emptier than the big eyes she's got fixed on him are the promises Bambina made. Blood trickles down from the bridge of her nose, where her glasses, now mangled and dangling off one ear, musta cut in.

His own body is poundin' from the inside-out, not hurtin' too bad save for his shoulder, but just all 'verberating like he's been bucked off a bronc. His chest is warmer than the rest of him – damp to the touch too, and looking down through his tilty vision he finds a blotched stain all over his front. From the smell of it, cocoa.

The sparrows alight on the scene, most of 'em with their phones and devices out so's they can preserve this moment for all of techno-eternity. "We'll call the police!" one of them chirps in a giddy, pick-me voice.

"I _am_ the police," Jake tells them sternly, staggering to his feet. Their sobered expressions show they don't need him to whip out his badge as proof. Shit, how long has it been since he could say that with any sense of pride? Will he ever get to again?

Almost as if to keep on par with him, the girl stands too, wordlessly removing the waggling glasses from her face. She tries to stick them in her jeans pocket but it ain't deep enough, and she curses – the first he's heard her say anythin' – and is forced to clench them in her hand. Her headphones are draggin' like a tail on the ground, forgotten and at least to the naked eye, undamaged.

One-a the co-eds brings Jake his hat, while another gives Cocoa – that's what Jake names her, the scent of what's covering his shirt front too much to ignore – her wallet. Only thing remainin' showing any sign of what transpired is the crushed styrofoam cup several feet away, that spat its contents out upon impact.

"Ohmigod!" Another one of the _pajaritas_ all but perches on Cocoa's shoulder which sends her back a step, wincing and averting her gaze. "You could have been _killed_ !"

 _Dang_ , these girlies make some of the new recruits, like that Meekly kid, look like a first-rate genius with how slow on the uptake they are. Cocoa takes another stuttering step backward, seemingly too mixed-up to respond.

Jake, in turn, closes in on the blondie. "Yeah, she coulda, so if you wouldn't mind givin' her a bit of space, would appreciate it." Really, he's hopin' it to be more than a bit – for all of 'em to take a hike.

Maybe they ain't _that_ clouded in the head, because with weak, murmuring well-wishes, the chickies disperse in the same flock they'd been knit together in since Jake first encountered 'em. Even though he knows a few seconds from now they'll be on their Insty-grims and Tweeters lettin' the inter-world know all about what happened, Jake's relieved that Miss Cocoa here can get a breath in without havin' to share it.

Her motions are herky-jerky as she tries coilin' up her headphones even with her glasses clutched tight in her fist, all the while blatantly ignoring Jake and the way he's half sizin' her up, half givin' her the _chance_ to say somethin' first. Maybe ask to get checked on, seein' as how her arms are covered in angry pink scratches and speckled up with black pebbly bits of pavement.

Or maybe say _thank you_ for savin' her life.

'Cept she don't look too thankful. He saved her from a possible death and she hardly even got a single ray of life shinin' from her to show for it.

Finally, he remembers that communication works both ways. "How you feel 'bout takin' a walk?"

Jake really doesn't care too much how she feels about it, but she lets him know anyway, givin' him a _look_ saying he's off his rocker for even thinkin' of asking. Like _he's_ the one who just near let himself get pancaked by a tank-car.

Alright, attempt number two. "C'mon, we can get you cleaned up. First Aid's down at the aud'torium lot, s'only a couple blocks. It won't cost you none, if that's what you're worried 'bout."

"I'm fine," she allows in a hoarse whisper. A tear slides from her eyes, joins the line of blood streaming down her face, over her lips and off her chin.

"You ain't nothin' of the sort." Shit, he don't have anything for her to wipe her face with 'cept... "Here." He undoes his kerchief, offers it to Cocoa hopin' she don't mind it reeks of sweat and...more sweat.

Her nose wrinkles a little tellin' she do mind a bit when she takes it in her already jam-packed hands, but not enough that it keeps her from dabbing off her chin. And then she hands it back to Jake, stayin' where she is and starin' him down in the sorta way that's prob'ly meant to scare him off with how blank and impassable it is.

That'd be the day when anyone bests Jake Marshall when it comes to _stubborn_.

"Y'know, if I really wanted to -" He keeps his tone lacksy-daisical, like they're just two amigos passin' the afternoon down by the hitching post. " - I could fine you somethin' _real_ good for walking 'gainst the light. In this neck of the woods, they call that jaywalkin'."

Third time's a charm, his bluff leading to her lettin' out the tiniest hiccup followed by the biggest sniff that don't do a thing to keep back the snot slikin' up her nose.

"And I don't wanna do that; I _want_ you to take a walk with me. So walk with me, _chiquita._ " He hesitates just long enough to picture Ms. Angel rollin' her eyes at his lack of social graces, then adds, "Please?"

* * *

"Go talk to her. _You're_ the one who saved her."

This is the Dustin Prince form of mouthin' back. The two of 'em are a short distance away, watchin' the volunteers wipe Cocoa's arms free of gravel and clean up her face with alcohol and a bandaid. Every now and then - and there she goes again - she's lifted her head and Jake's seen the despair growin' more and more each time. It's like a weed, planted back in the macadam she was almost flattened to, an' is bein' fed with every glance over.

Not for the first time, Jake makes it plain he's got no interest in gettin' acquainted any closer, given their rough introduction. "Shit, an' what am I s'posed to say to her?"

Boy, do he wish Angel were here, though her interrogation skills always served better at drillin' into men-folk. Now, Neil, maybe – he'd just talk a blue streak until the other person wouldn't have no choice but to shut him up by sayin' somethin' back. Jake suspects that'd even apply to the painfully quiet Miss Cocoa here, who had her head lowered and her lips zipped during the brief walk back to the lot.

Jake ain't equipped with either charisma or articulation, and Dustin Prince, it seems, ain't equipped with much of a suggestion.

"I dunno, she looks like every other girl I saw at the convention. Ask her about that? Just make small talk, or something."

Or something.

Why can't _Príncipe_ get it through his noggin, that there's not a word to be said to this girl, who has sorrow draped allovers her like a tattered ol' poncho? Thugs, petty criminals, lowlife delinquents; Jake'll take them hoodlums any day, 'cause they don't involve compassion, and it ain't that he don't have any to share, it's just that he don't know how, and if he did, it wouldn't be as much as Miss Cocoa over there needs.

"She almost got splattered all up-an'-down Fourth Street. I doubt she wants to say two words about fuckin' FanCon, and I sure as hell don't wanna hear 'em."

"Yeah, you and Jack Hammer both." Prince sighs heavily, Jake unable to decrypt the reference other'n that Dustin's fanboy dreams musta fizzled out. "Seriously, Jake, the girl's looked over here like fifty times, I don't think she's going to care what you have to say as long as you say _anything_ at all."

God bless Dustin Prince and his eternal brightsidedness. Thinking that _tryin'_ to do the right thing, especially when it came to helpin' others, actually paid off.

As if Prince's got that tella-pathy ability, Cocoa looks over again, and it's that fifty-first time that chips into Jake's memory and resolve. Wasn't too long ago another girl, bit younger than Cocoa here, but still jus' as lost and skitterish got given the cold shoulder by a man too bull-headed to accept he didn't have the claim staked on all the hurt in the world.

An' maybe he'll never get to apologize to Little Ema for bein' so heartless upon their last meeting, but he can at least make sure he doesn't have to live on wonderin' if he shoulda done right to Miss Cocoa.

'Cause even in all his obstinance, he knows not approachin' her after this would be a mistake. If Neil hated anything, it was needless mistakes, and there's been so many already – Jake don't wanna be the one makin' another.

"Fine, guess I can give it a go, if only t'make you quit your nagging. So get back to work, okay? Ain't gonna look good if you're later than you already are, all 'cause you're standin' around jabbering with me." Yeah, their shift officially started more'n twenty minutes ago, but the crowd's no more than a handful of sci-fi fans strewn about the area. "You wouldn't want any of those _Star Quest-_ ers to lose their way, now would you?"

" _Star Fighters_ ."

"What?"

" _Star_ _Fighters_ ," Prince repeats. "That's the movie franchise, with Duke Skyrunner. The actor was there today, and the line was probably a mile long! You're thinking of _Star Quest_ , the TV series with Captain Quirk and Mister Schpok and -"

"Yeah, well, fuck 'em both. Jus' shut up and get back to work, _comprende_? That's an order."

Even with how prickly Jake's been towards him today, nothin' short of spurring Prince to avoid him like a leper the way all the other officers do, here's Prince rollin' with the punches by responding with his own jab. A sharp salute, complete with a "Yes sir!" - a mocking gesture, both of 'em knowin' full well Jake can't really pull rank, not anymore. But there ain't any ill intent behind it – never would be, comin' from Dustin Prince.

And Jake don't mean to, but he _laughs_ , and it actually ain't hollow like the rest of him is. Feels good, for that whole split-second.

Then Prince departs, and it's back to reality. Which don't feel good at all.

* * *

When Jake nears her, she's sittin' on the edge of a raised grassy island not too far from the first-aid tent, knocking her heels back and forth against the concrete wall. Her belongings are neatly piled in her lap, and she's focused on pressin' the buttons of her mp3 player, though her headphones ain't in. Prob'ly just checkin' none of her songs fell out when she took a spill.

"Y'know, I was gonna get me one-a those doohickeys, but I couldn't figure how I was gonna get all the songs off my cassettes and crammed into that itty-bitty thing."

She spares Jake a glance, the corners of her lips curving just 'nuff that she can say she tried, but her mouth's a line that's more scar than smile, the way it's coverin' up whatever's wounding her so savagely underneath it.

Jake's spent a good year perfectin' his own variation of that expression, and it's never occurred to him before now that someone – _anyone_ – else out there in this wild world would be experiencin' the same bone-deep achin' giving him the need to do so.

And he don't even know...

"You gotta name?"

She shifts slightly, scratches at her nose where the band-aid's stickered over it. Apparently, that's a "no", which he knows can't be true.

"Well, you can call me Jake." _Officer_ Marshall is a title that don't sit right, one he always hears in a malicious way ever since it'd been re-gifted to him by Chief Gant. He don't want this girl usin' such vulgarities. "An' if you don't wanna give your name, that's alright by me. I'll just keep callin' you Miss Cocoa like I've been doin' in my head this whole time, since that's what you done spilt all over me."

He surmises that might get a real-live smile outta her, but all it does is cause her to drop her head, wipe her eyes for the hundredth time and choke out an "I'm sorry..."

She really _does_ sound sorry and that bothers him more'n the red-faced sniffling. "Don't be sorry. Just...I really did come here to talk to you. Or...I guess, have you talk to me. You ain't in trouble or nothin', I just...I dunno, you save a girl from gettin' leveled by a truck, end up wonderin' how she got herself there, s'all."

"You don't wanna know about that. Not really."

"Says who?"

"No one ever asks me about..." She shrugs. "Much of anything. You're just asking me because you're a cop – that's your _job_ , to 'care' about the public. Your partner put you up to this, didn't he?"

Jake takes a seat next to her, not sure how else he can emphasize he means business here. "Trust me, Miss Cocoa -"

"Denise. Denise Swallow." She still don't look at Jake, but she doesn't cower away, like she did at the scene around him and the girls. So that's some kinda progress.

"Denise? Well, trust me, Miss Denise Swallow, I don't do anythin' simply because it's my _job_. You go an' ask Prince back there, I got a sheet tall as you listin' all my counts of 'insubordination'." Most of 'em dated after February of last year, until he got demoted in August, but no need to get nitpicky. "I ain't over here on anyone's orders but my own."

He wants to add that in some way, she _owes_ to him to tell. Both of them easily may not be standin' here right now if he'd appraised the situation a hair longer. But that really don't seem like it matters one way or the other to her.

Denise's sniffles have stopped, replaced by a sort of intensity – tryin' to steel herself, it looks like. Her thumb is going nonstop – _clickclickclickclick_ ing the center button of her mp3 player. Finally, her mouth parts, and a few seconds later the words come tumbling out.

"I was going to go to the convention – I wanted to meet Dale K. Smith. You know who he is?"

Ah fuck, this _convention_. "I don't, but go on."

"He's the lead actor in _Doctor_ _How_ – it's my favorite...favorite show. My brother and I used to watch it together all the time. This..." She plucks at her baggy shirt, that has some goofy-lookin' blue phone booth thing screened on it. "This was his shirt, too. I was going to ask the Doctor...Dale K. Smith...to sign it. The guy who played the Doctor before him signed it when we went to FanCon a...a few years ago, when he – my brother - went to college here..."

The way Miss Denise's voice bends and warps from the rigidness she's been showin' to somethin' soft and tender when she's sayin' this about her brother – he can tell the two of 'em must be closer than Saturday night and Sunday morning.

"Well, that's real nice of you, Miss Denise. I'm sure your brother'll 'ppreciate it."

And as soon as he says those words, he wishes he could stuff them right back in, 'cause Denise brings a hand to her mouth – which had been so close to smilin' – so's a sob doesn't escape. Her eyes get a wet shine to 'em again, and Jake is amazed she has tears left to cry.

 _Used_ to watch it together. _Was_ his shirt. _Went_ to college here.

He's a fucking idiot. Spendin' the entirety of his life thinkin' this happens to other people – losin' a family member or their best friend (in Jake's case, both) so suddenly and unjustly– and then Neil was gone, and Jake didn't just think, he _knew_ it didn't, _couldn't_ , happen to others the way it happened to him.

He's heard tales of outlaws back in the Old West who were hanged, but they didn't die right away. For whatever reason their necks didn't snap, and they spent several agonizing minutes in thin air with that noose choking them tight, and they'd thrash about like a fish on a hook.

No way to know if they were kickin' trying to live or because they wanted it to all end already – one way or another, they wanted it to _stop_ and flailin' around is all they could do.

'Cept instead of minutes, it's been over a year Jake's been fightin' – to no avail, it seems most days.

He wonders how long it's been for Miss Denise.

He also wonders how the fuck he's supposed to rescue this. "That convention thing ends in an hour or two. Shouldn't you of been there by now?" 'Stead of blocks away, and only inches from certain death.

Her shoulders shake along with the breath she inhales, so he's not expectin' her voice to be so _strong_ when she tells him: "I...I forgot the tickets. I... _fucking_ forgot them. I left them and the pass for the meet-and-greet in my dorm, r-right on top of the DVD player. I was watching some episodes before I left a-and...I didn't even realize it until I went to a coffee shop earlier th-that they weren't in my wallet a-and...I'm so stupid."

"Your dorm's that far from here?"

"No!" She blinks when the exclamation leaves her, just as surprised as Jake is to hear her say anythin' with so much force. "No...sorry, I...I don't go to school here. I go to Orange County State...I took the bus out here this morning."

Jake's heard of the college before, seen signs for it on the way out to visit Mama and Dad. Quite a hike from where they are now, even more so if she took the bus in, like she said. If it were a little earlier in the day, he'd offer her a ride there'n back again in his beat-up El Camino – though he couldn't blame her if she'da said _No!_ with just as much vehemence as she did now.

"And they don't sell tickets or meet-and-greet passes at the door – it's all presale. So I've just been wandering around like an idiot trying to -"

She stops abruptly, like she words she needs to say got a bad taste to 'em.

"Tryin'a find somethin' else to do?" Jake supplies.

"Sure, I...well...I don't know! I don't know what I was doing today, I don't know what I'm doing _any_ day anymore! All I wanted to do was go to the convention to get Doug's shirt signed and I couldn't even...And then you...what you did, I hadn't counted on...ow!" Her fingers bump her wounded nose as she goes to rub her eyes.

Jesus Christ, can't he say _anything_ right? God _damn,_ does he wish Neil could be here in his stead, tryin'a question this broke-apart girl. Was always so much more gifted at conversation than Jake was, or ever will be.

He wishes it a lot, actually, more'n just this moment. That he could jus' straight up trade himself in so Neil could get back here, return to blazin' through life as strikingly as he'd been torn away from it.

And those kinda wishes ain't the sort of thing easy to admit to yourself. Sure ain't somethin' you admit to a total stranger.

That's when it comes over Jake his original assessment of the situation - her droppin' her wallet with _intent_ , then deliberately evading talk of any kind ('specially _gratitude_ ), all whiles lookin' the most woebegonest person alive 'sides the one Jake sees in the mirror – is better'n any written confession. That Miss Denise here done more than _wish_ she could swap herself for this brother she misses so deeply. She'd actually gone and tried to do it.

"I can't believe I...I waited so long for today. I haven't been here since...since Doug and I went, and...how could I forget? How...?" She hics and gulps down a few phlegmmy breaths. "I – I'm sorry, you didn't...why the hell am I telling you all this, you wouldn't understand."

Jake almost gets mad at that remark. Almost, 'cept how do you get _mad_ at a young lady so plainly ripped apart from the inside-out, all 'cause she don't know how to handle bein' without her brother?

So maybe it's not the right thing to say – tellin' her how wrong she is, but Jake's never made it a habit to say what's right or what's wrong, only what's on his mind.

"No? There's a lot of things I don't understand, Miss Denise, but feelin' you ain't nothing but a fuck-up for doin' a piss-poor job of getting on with life after losin' your brother is somethin' I understand plenty."

"I never said-!"

"Didn't have to."

Jake removes his hat, sets it on his knee, so there's not one sliver of shadow obstructing his view of Denise. What he sees is her gnawing on her bottom lip, unable to stop the whimpers from slipping out. He notices too, that she's done playin' with her little device, instead is hugging herself.

While it'd take ages to learn Miss Denise's whole story, Jake's gathered plenty 'nuff to figure this brother – Doug, she said? - was a man struck down in his prime, a real respectable gent and not some louse like some of the types he's seen enterin' the convention today. The kinda fella whose absence left a Texas-sized hole in your life if you was nailed as tight together as a horse and its shoe, like Denise is makin' it sound they were.

"Look, I ain't gonna tell you what you did was _wrong._ " Her head snaps up with attention, but she don't refute his allegations, which is confirmation enough. "'Cause...well, that'd be like sayin' you was feelin' somethin' wrong. So..."

He pauses, knowing he's pokin' around a very dangerous territory – one he's never traversed with anyone other'n Bambina there aside him. Which didn't exactly lead to the destination he'd mapped out in his mind.

Jake wants to advise her that, whatever she's been told by anyone else, just know it ain't gonna work tryin' to live your life _for_ your brother. But she seems like a smart kid, and likely knows already that's all a load of sentimental bullpocky people say when they wanna find a way to wash their hands of you. When they think that, time's up, you gotta move on already and _live your life_ for "them".

Shit, just the _livin'_ part is what takes everything out of him everyday, forget doin' it _for_ Neil, or anyone.

So what can he tell her, that she don't already know? What could _she_ say back that would in any way lift the burden weighin' her down? Whole lotta nothin', that's what. 'Stead, Jake gets this little seed of an idea of what he can _do_ – what might give her a temporary fix to a very permanent problem.

"...So you don't gotta tell me nothin' more 'bout today. Think I got a good handle on it all." He addresses her with a dead seriousness that would make Angel proud. "But I wanna know one more thing and you're gonna give me a straight answer."

"Uhhm..." Denise swipes her wrist across her runny nose. "I'll try."

"Is your Dale Kaysmith fella gonna be at the convention tomorrow?"

 _That's_ a question she wasn't expectin', her eyebrows scrunching up with befuddlement. It takes her a few seconds to reply, more-so searchin' why he'd be askin' such a thing in the first place, opposed to the actual answer.

"Yeah. Yeah, he is, but...I can't use my meet-and-greet pass if I can't get in. They're really strict about the tickets, you couldn't buy general admission, just specific days. So it doesn't matter."

"Sure it matters, 'cause what if you could get in?"

"Like how?" Denise questions him immediate. "What am I gonna do, take a DARTIS and travel back to today with my ticket?"

"I don't know what kinda critter a 'DARTIS' is, but I was thinkin' you could just walk through the front door normal like everyone else." Although _normal_ considering the freaks from every walk of life he'd seen today is a very relative term.

Her tongue's still tied with confusion. Jake sets his hat aside, hops off the edge of the island, and retrieves his wallet from his back pocket.

"Here, see this?" He takes his convention pass from the section that's gone a long time since seein' more'n a couple greenbacks, quickly unfolding it from the quarters it's bent up in. "We got these t' use on our breaks, show of thanks for us workin' this ungodly thing. Prince went today, think he'd warn you to not bother meetin' Jack Hammer."

Denise's eyes widen larger than the headlights of the truck that almost ended her. "What...wait. You're just...giving it to me? I can't...I can't take that from you. I...I'd get in trouble anyway, they don't sell passes like that to the general public."

She must be some kinda veteran of this nerd gathering if she can tell that much at a quick glance. Well, all the same...

"You think there's one damn thing at this convention an ol' _vaquero_ like me wants to see? What the hell else am I gonna do with it, fold it into some ori-gamey swan? S'long as you get yourself back here tomorrow, it's all yours."

"I...can't have it now...?"

"Nope." Jake folds it back up and stashes it into his wallet. "Can't say I trust that you won't just chuck it if I give to you now. So you go on home tonight, rest yourself and come back tomorrow. I'll be right 'round here."

"I..." There's a break in her voice. Even if it's from happiness, Jake hopes she don't start spillin' out more tears. "...I...really?"

"Really. And I'll even walk you to the entrance jus' so's you don't get any flack 'bout havin' such a special pass like that." He adds in his ultimatum 'fore she start a rebuttal. "Only one catch: you gotta wear a Doc How shirt of your own. 'm sure you got plenty of 'em. Get your own shirt signed."

She squirms, dropping her gaze, lost in consideration.

"Why? Why...would I have to...I mean, why can't I wear Doug's...this shirt?"

God's sakes, she's got all the makings of a desperado, always questionin' what's told to her. Jake mightily approves, but he's also determined to end - and win – this showdown.

"What d'you mean 'why'? Sometimes there ain't 'why', sometimes that's just how things gotta go. You understand?"

She stares, far-off at first but then at him. Nods. She does. May well be the best he's gonna get from her, but that's enough to satisfy him – to leave him confident they'll meet again.

Jake lifts his hat from the ledge, carefully sets it back where it belongs. "Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Denise, I do have to get back to hardly workin' – mean, workin' hard. That is, if you can promise me you'll be alright gettin' home?"

"Yeah...yeah, the bus stop's only a ten minute walk from here."

"Okay. And make sure you tend to that good, hear me?" He motions roundabouts her face. "I didn't save you jus' so your nose could get all gangrene-y, maybe amputated."

She...laughs? Or, not a laugh, but the kind of happy noise you'd make after bein' caged up in a pen of misery for days, weeks. Whatever it is, it's sweet enough for Jake to feel like this expedition – rocky as it was – hasn't met a tragic end.

He's only a couple steps away, when her tinny voice calls to him. "Jake...?"

He turns, instinctively tugs on the brim of his hat. "Hm?"

"You really think going tomorrow's going to...to make me feel better?" She rubs her arm, the sleeve of her oversized shirt ruching up and down.

"I don't think anythin' like that, exactly. I just think it's important you go an' find out."

"So...so what if it _doesn't_ make me feel any better?"

Jake shrugs. "An' what if it does?"

And then...hold up a minute, is that a smile? Well, it ain't a frown or anythin' else equally heart-breaking. Yep, Jake's sure as can be Miss Denise here has finally cracked a smile, and that smile sticks as she says: "I'll try to get here around ten."

* * *

The day's at an end and Jake's alongside Prince, draggin' along the orange cones that Dustin's gonna store in his car 'til tomorrow.

Prince bein' who he is, first thing he asks Jake is how Miss Denise is holdin' up.

"Gonna find out tomorrow, actually. Let her have my ticket so she don't miss out."

"Oh..." Dustin flashes a relieved smile. "Well, good! Who knew you had it in you, to comfort her?"

"Not you, seems." Jake would take that as an insult, 'cept really, Dustin's only statin' fact. "So what's this 'bout Jack Hammer bein' a letdown?"

"It wasn't just me, he was like that with everyone. I asked him about _Space Jamurai_ and he looked like he was gonna haul off and punch me. Seriously... " Dustin pauses, then adds under his breath, "What a douche."

Whoa, here's _Príncipe_ bustin' out the obscenities – musta been severe. Jake can't help but smirk at this turn of character.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." Dustin unlocks the trunk of his hatchback and stacks the cones inside. "Even more than you."

Again, Prince might be tellin' the God's- honest truth, but Jake is _this_ close to instructin' him, hey, maybe space out the jibes a bit. 'Cept Dustin shuts the trunk, and Jake gets distracted by what's coverin' the back of the car from head-to-tailpipe.

"You're a Dodgers fan, huh?" Ain't really a question. Gotta be at least ten different stickers and decals broadcastin' Dustin's loyalty.

"Are you kidding?! Cut me and I bleed blue. I'm even taking off to go the opener on Monday."

"Whaddya know, I got tickets for Monday's game too."

"Oh, I didn't know you were a Dodgers fan!" There's that _spark_ again. Ah dammit, he shoulda kept his mouth shut. Now Dustin's gonna wanna... "What do you think of Jack Gri-"

"Hold your horses, Prince. Didn't say I was a fan of 'em." If Jake ever swore allegiance to any one club, he'd choose the Texas Rangers – like there was any other option. "Just said I got tickets to the game. I go every year when they start up. Have been for 'long as I can remember."

The contradiction of his statements tell the truth more than Jake could think to phrase it straightforward-like. Prince's vibrance fades into something more cautious, but still friendly as he moves to the driver's side door.

"Oh. Maybe I'll see you there? My seat's in the loge level, if you wanna swing by."

Whatever the hell that is, or how far it is from his own outerfield seats, Jake has no clue. "Sure, sure. Yeah, I'll see ya there."

"Cool. See ya tomorrow too, Jake."

Jake nods and tips his hat, both an agreement and a g'bye, and heads to his car a few spaces down. He's alone in the dusky evening, the sky a deep purple same as the bruise he's gonna be sportin' on his shoulder.

Alone, except for his thoughts.

The hell did he mean, what he said to Dustin? Okay, well, he was itchin' to say anythin' to get the kid off his tail, didn't want to chit-chat any longer about _baseball_.

But what _did he mean_ , sayin' "sure," that he'll see Dustin there, when he coulda just as easily said otherwise? He's goin' to the game Monday?

He's goin' to the game Monday.

All that puffed-up sagacity he'd spouted at Denise, how's he s'posed to face her tomorrow if he's gonna just be yellow himself? Just gonna layabout and waste time ponderin' over how things _could_ be different? Jus' gonna pack it in all 'cause he's got it in his head that since nothin's gonna bring Neil back, what's it all matter?

He also knows – has known, but after talkin' to Denise today, he can actually buck up and admit as much - that ultimately this ain't about Neil Marshall. Not really. He can't keep usin' his brother as an excuse for any-and-every time things get a lil' rough. He's his own man, and's gotta live his own life, even when it gets tough jus' to exist.

The West didn't get settled 'cause them pioneers gave up at the first bump in the road – or when they lost an important member of their party.

So will Monday matter? Well, like Miss Denise had predicted for herself tomorrow, maybe not.

But like he told her: maybe so.

He takes his rarely-used phone from Zippy's glove compartment, and the one number he has on speed-dial ('cause she helped him put it there) picks up after two rings.

"Two days in a row, wow." Like he needs a reminder that he'd gone near a month sayin' nary a peep to her, other'n to turn her down. But during the short pause that follows, he can practically see Angel's hooded glare on the other end, ready to burn him through the phone. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"Now now." Lord, didn't this woman have any mode 'sides cheeky? "Jus' let me talk."

"Fine. I'm listening."

"Know it's short notice, but I was wonderin' if you got plans for Monday afternoon?" From the driver's seat, Jake can see Dustin's car nosin' out the lot, the Dodgers decals all shiny from the taillights.

"No shit, Jake, of course I have plans. Same Lunchland time, same Lunch-"

"Start changin' 'em."

* * *

 _This was written for my pal_ _ **obiwanlivesforever**_ _, as it features her OC, Denise Swallow, and one of my favorite AA characters. If you'd like any further notes detailing my thoughts behind writing this, please see my ao3 account (_ _ **copernicusjones**_ _). Reviews and likes, etc are always appreciated! Take care :)_


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